The Flying Legion | Page 6

draperies closed the apertures, light gushed from every angle and cornice. No
specific source of illumination seemed visible; but the room bathed itself in soft, clear
radiance with a certain restful greenish tinge, throwing no shadows, pure as the day itself.
The man pulled open a drawer in the table and silently gazed down at several little boxes
within. He opened some. From one, on a bed of purple satin, the Croix de Guerre, with a
palm, gleamed up at him. Another disclosed an "M.M.," a Médaille Militaire. A third
showed him the "D.F.C.," or Distinguished Flying Cross. Still another contained aviator's
insignia in the form of a double pair of wings. The Master smiled, and closed the boxes,
then the drawer.
"After these," he mused, "dead inaction? Not for me!"
His dark eyes were shining with eagerness as he walked to a door beside that through
which the Arab had entered. He swung it wide, disclosing an ample closet, likewise
inundated with light. There hung a war-worn aviator's uniform of leather, gauntlets, a
sheepskin jacket, a helmet, resistal goggles, a cartridge-belt still half full of ammunition,
a heavy service automatic.
For a moment the man looked in at these. A great yearning came upon his face.
Caressingly he touched the uniform, the helmet. He unhooked the pistol from where it
hung, and carried it back to the table.
There he laid it down, and drew up his chair in front of it. For a moment, silence fell as
he remained there studying the automatic--silence save for the faint, far hum of the city,
the occasional melodious note of steamer-whistles on the river.
The Master's face, now that full light brought out its details, showed a white scar that led

from his right ear down along jaw and throat, till the collar masked it. Gray hairs, beyond
those of his age, sprinkled his temples. Strangely he smiled as he observed the nicks and
deep excoriations in stock and barrel of the formidable weapon. He reached out, took up
the gun once more, weighed it, got the feel of it, patted it with affection.
"We've been through some wonderful times together, old pal, you and I," said he. "We
thought it was all over, didn't we, for a while? But it's not! Life's not done, yet. It's maybe
just beginning! We're going out on the long trek, again!"
For a while he sat there musing. Then he summoned Rrisa again, bade him remove the
tray, and gave him instructions about the guest soon to arrive. When Rrisa had withdrawn,
the Master pulled over one of the huge atlases, opened it, turned to the map of Arabia,
and fell into deep study.
Rrisa's tapping at the door, minutes later, roused him. At his order to advance, the door
swung. The Arab ushered in a guest, then silently disappeared. Without a sound, the door
closed.
The Master arose, advancing with outstretched hand.
"Bohannan! God, but I'm glad to see you!"
Their hands met and clasped. The Master led Bohannan to the table and gestured toward
a chair. Bohannan threw his hat on the table with a large, sweeping gesture typical of his
whole character, and sat down. And for a moment, they looked at each other in silence.
A very different type, this, from the dark, sinewed master of Niss'rosh. Bohannan was
frankly red-haired, a bit stout, smiling, expansive. His blood was undoubtedly Celtic. An
air of great geniality pervaded him. His hands were strong and energetic, with oddly
spatulate fingers; and the manner in which his nails had been gnawed down and his
mustache likewise chewed, bespoke a highly nervous temperament belied by his ruddy,
almost boyish face. His age might have been thirty-five, but he looked one of those men
who never fully grow up, who never can be old.
"Well, what's doing now?" demanded he, fixing blue eyes on his host. He produced a
cigarette and lighted it, inhaled smoke deeply and blew a thin gray cloud toward the
ceiling. "Something big, eh? by the way you routed me out of a poker-game where I was
already forty-seven dollars and a half to the good. You don't usually call a fellow, that
way, unless there's something in the wind!"
"There is, now."
"Big?"
"Very."
"So?" The newcomer's eyes fell on the pistol. "Yes, that looks like action, all right. Hope
to heaven it is! I've been boring myself and everybody else to death, the past three

months. What's up? Duel, maybe?"
"Yes. That's just it, Bohannan. A duel." And the Master fixed strange eyes on his
companion. His muscular fingers fell to tapping the prayer-rug on the table, drumming
out an impatient little tattoo.
"Duel? Lord's sake, man! With whom?"
"With Fate. Now, listen!" The Master's tones became more animated. A little